Frade translated.
“And the SIGABA produces a perforated tape, like this.”
He held up a three-foot-long strip of brown paper tape and handed it to Frade.
Frade translated as they examined it. He saw that it was perforated along its length with small holes. Over each grouping of holes was a letter. In this case, it spelled out PLAY IT AGAIN SAM.
He handed the tape to Martín, who examined it. Tío Juan moved in for a closer look, took the tape from Martín, then looked at Fischer for a further explanation.
“Then all we have to do is feed the tape back into a Model 7.2 transceiver,” Fischer went on, “and throw a switch, and the Model 7.2 will broadcast the message on the tape over and over, perfectly, until it is turned off.”
Frade translated.
“Very clever,” Martín said.
“Brilliant!” Tío Juan said enthusiastically.
“When we have it set up, I’ll be happy to demonstrate it,” Fischer said.
Frade translated.
“I’d like to see that,” Tío Juan said.
“Well, as soon as we get it set up, Tío Juan, at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, I’ll arrange a demonstration for you and El Coronel Martín.”
“Please,” Perón said.
“Captain Delgano,” Frade said, “would you be good enough to show these gentlemen around Zero Zero One?”
“It would be my honor, Don Cletus.”
“Jesus, Fischer,” Frade said when the others were inside the Lodestar, “where did all that tape repeater yarn come from?”
“I spent most of the trip down here wondering what I was going to do if somebody asked me what the SIGABA was. I didn’t want to have to pull the D-ring.”
“What D-ring?”
“The one that sets off the thermite grenades. There’s two of them in the crate, in boxes labeled ‘Perforatable Tape.’ ”
IX
[ONE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1730 19 July 1943
Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, looked with interest as a native Argentine cowboy—called a gaucho, he had learned from a magazine photo essay—pushed himself off the tailgate of a Ford Model A pickup and walked toward the Horch that had carried them from the airfield to what Major Frade had described as “my farm.”
The gaucho looks just like the ones in the pictures in National Geographic: He’s got the wide leather belt decorated with silver, the big knife slipped in the belt at the back, the billowing breeches tucked into leather boots—everything.
But what’s a gaucho doing here? This place looks more like the campus of a boarding school for rich kids than a farm.
And take a look at that! Jesus, that’s a good-looking dame!
I thought all these people would look like Chiquita Banana—dark skin, black hair, a whatchamacallit tied over their heads—not a long-haired blonde in a blouse and a horse riding skirt.
The blonde kissed Major Frade in a manner that was both respectable and interesting, then put her hand out to Fischer.
“Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,” she said. “I’m Dorotea Frade.”